The Glow of the Warmth You Throw
by januarys
Summary: You're not dead. Let's have dinner. x — SherlockIrene


**The Glow of the Warmth You Throw** (Irene/Sherlock, ambiguous Sherlock/John)

PG | 1,319

Sherlock and Irene finally have their dinner during the Great Hiatus, _You're not dead. Let's have dinner. x_

* * *

The water glimmers underneath the starlight, the noise, the hustle and bustle of the Sydney nightlife. The breeze from the ocean rushes through the surrounding areas, a regular occurrence, but it's lovely nonetheless.

(_delete)_

He stands on the edge of a pier, the occasional someone passing through to admire the view. Not observing, simply _living_. For a moment, split second, a moment in that second, he wishes to be like that someone. Mind empty, taking the moment as a simply kind of joy rather than observation, and filing it away as a fond memory.

So he tries.

* * *

Darling Harbour, Sherlock decides, is beautiful.

* * *

The second passes, the someone leaves, the moment is gone and he is alone once again.

* * *

Above the hustle of the night, the energetic pace of the crowd around the harbour, the vibration of his phone is louder than all of it. He tears his gaze away from the ocean, his mind races once again (-_red eye flight to san francisco tomorrow morning last of the australasian ring taken down numbers of the american ring still not verified two years two whole years so tired john delete racing like a rocket take this moment homeless network sending me itinerary by five tomorrow it's too early-) _and the artificial flare from his phone screen is almost an insult to the twinkling lights surrounding the harbour.

* * *

_You're not dead. Let's have dinner. x_

He turns around, and Irene Adler stands behind him.

* * *

There's a small café near the pier and Sherlock sits across from her, watching, observing, wanting (_delete). _She smiles at him, and he's reminded of the flat, a roaring fire, his fingers tracing her pulse, the warmth of her body stirs something in his stomach (_delete)_ and it feels like a century away but it's less than that and she's something familiar, something like home, though not quite.

She looks different, she looks the same. Her hair falls into soft curls resting above her collarbone, her make up softening her features rather than enhancing them, her dress accentuating her curves but not drawing attention to them, a familiar pair of heels adorning her feet. Her perfume is the same, warm and sweet, musk dancing on his tongue.

She is Irene Adler, but she is trying to not _be _Irene Adler.

* * *

_Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait._

* * *

"So," she says, and her voice is like honey, warm and golden and lovely, "this is the last place I would have expected you to show up, Mister Holmes."

It's as though she's trying to shift in her skin, to become something she's not, her bones rattling in disagreement. She's been The Woman for so long, from the way she uncrosses her legs, to the way her fingers taps discreetly underneath the table, phalanges almost vibrating, desperate for control over something (_give. it. back_) but it's too far out of reach.

"Especially looking like that. I don't expect you turn too many heads anymore?"

A quip. Something she expects Sherlock to latch on to, tear it apart to the core, only to discover Irene there in the middle wanting him to beg for mercy. He consciously raises a hand to run through his copper curls, cut closer to his head than he usually would have liked. She smirks.

"It was a necessity for this transport; you couldn't have a dead man wandering the continents."

The smirk is still on her lips, they seem fuller now that the blood red has been replaced with a shimmering apricot shade. He finds it suits her more, makes her that more untouchable (_delete)._

She leans forward, the whole rooms seems to move with her.

"Well we couldn't have that, could we?"

The night outside shifts, the people pass by unaware of the fact that two beautiful and brilliant minds are conversing in this very café. Irene turns around, watches the harbour, and takes from it what she will.

Their meals arrive and they eat, a silence descending over the table that's neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. He eats because he must, it would be rude not to. She's been waiting for this from the moment her fingers opened that file containing his photos (_cold that day brilliant idea to wrap self in sheet it's always a pleasure to get a rise from mycroft wonder how the diet is going_)-

"Stop thinking."

Sherlock looks at her. She smiles again. Her hand has found its way across the small table to rest on top of his. Her hand is so small compared to his, soft and delicate, toned from constant use due to her ex-profession. His own is littered with silvered scars, paler than his own skin. His fingers twitch. Her smile is still resting on her lips.

"Two years, my love, two years. Stop thinking. Feel."

So he does.

* * *

They walk along the harbour side later, arm in arm. Despite the crowd, it's as though they part for the two of them. Irene gazes out to the oceans, never ending, reflecting the midnight sky back to itself, stars dancing off the ripples that play on the surface.

She's warm, the warmth from all those years ago once again seeping into his skin, settling into his bones, stirring something low in his stomach (_do not delete) _and back then he wanted her closer to him, that thought deleted once it began to make headway, but now he wants to bring her closer.

Sherlock shifts. Irene understands. She rests her head against him and it takes everything he has to not bring her even closer, intertwine himself with her, her soft curves under his fingertips, her breath in his ear. Irene is warm, and lovely, and two years ago Sherlock would not have done this at all.

The breeze picks up again, her scent dances around him, and he thinks that he was in love with her all those years ago. Irene's mind rather, her intriguing mind hidden beneath those pinned curls. Now he loves her, he does, she's Irene. No longer The Woman, Irene Adler.

Irene.

* * *

"It's wonderful, shutting everything off and simply feeling, am I right?"

* * *

Then she's in front of him, her hands tracing a path up to his chest, resting over his heart. It beats faster than normal, a pattern he's unfamiliar with but it's happened before, every now and again with—

"John."

Sherlock stops. Irene looks up at him, she's small, so small, and her smile is still on her lips but it's sadder somehow, knowingly so. He knows guilt when he feels it, a raw feeling in his chest, a hole being dug out and abandoned, only to be filled with all those things he hates, slows him down.

He cups her face, tilting her head slightly so he can look fully at her. Her eyes are shining, her nose is a little cold, and through all this her soft smile is still on her lips. He wishes he could apologise, because she isn't the one who causes his heart to race, the one who he's doing this all for, but he can't.

Irene knows though, she knows, and she understands. Her fingers continue up to his collar, resting on his warm neck.

"Oh, Mister Holmes. If I could even be a _quarter_ of what Doctor Watson is to you, I daresay I would be the luckiest woman in the world."

* * *

Her fingers wrap around his neck, firm and soft and positively lovely. She brings his head down to hers, rests their foreheads together, noses touching, and the world stops around them. She's warm, she's Irene, and he wants to love her. He closes his eyes, taking in this moment.

_Feels_.

* * *

When he opens them again, she's gone.

* * *

(_delete_)


End file.
